


Sky-high-jubilating Afflicted-to-death

by Mianmaru



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, One True Pairing, Physical Abuse, True Love, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, Verbal Abuse, Violence, challenge02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mianmaru/pseuds/Mianmaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There once lived a King that had a fiber-barren son with a sharp nose, water-blue eyes and unruly hair. The boy had the rare name Sky-high-jubilating Afflicted-to-death and was born with a strange gift. Whenever a tear left his eyes, that tear would turn into a coin.</p><p> </p><p>Based on the GDR- fairy tale Himmelhochjauchzend Zutodebetrübt.</p><p>Es lebte einmal ein König, der hatte eine fädchendürre Tochter mit spitzer Nase, wasserblauen Augen und wiederborstigem Haar. Das Mädchen hörte auf den selten Namen Himmelhochjauchzend- Zutodebetrübt und war von Geburt mit einer sonderbaren Eigenart behaftet...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prince Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a bit harsher than the original but I just didn't see Sherlock cry that easily.

There once lived a King that had a fiber-barren son with a sharp nose, water-blue eyes and unruly hair. The boy had the rare name Sky-high-jubilating Afflicted-to-death and was born with a strange gift. Whenever a tear left his eyes, that tear would turn into a coin.

Naturally, the King was a very rich man and there were few things he had to worry about. But though his son was of strange beauty and the reason of his wealth (he had been a very difficult toddler), the king had no bigger wish than to see him married. Unfortunately, his son had his name for a reason. He was extremely moody and seldom spared anyone his temper though he almost never cried these days. And his temper flared up every time someone used his full name. He detested his name with the power of three-thousand suns. He preferred being called by another name. A name of his own invention.

Sherlock.

*****

 

It was a lazy afternoon that Sherlock spent in the garden catching bugs and classifying them, using an old book he had found in his father’s library. He relished his solitude. He had always been eager to be left alone but his wish was rarely granted.

“Sherlock, my son, would you please come and welcome our guest!” He groaned in despair when he heard his mother’s voice. She only called him by his chosen name when she wanted him to be pleasant. Another one? Really? Slowly, he made his way to the throne room where his father was proudly looking down onto his guest.

Sherlock swallowed heavily when he recognized his latest suitor.

Prince Sebastian was a bulky, wild looking man that always appeared to be on the way to chop down a tree, wearing dirty brown trousers and ugly checkered shirts. A stroppy dark beard covered the biggest part of his hideous face but his eyes gave away enough of his violent personality.

Upon his father’s begging gesture, Sherlock stepped closer to the throne, stopping right beside their guest and looking up expectantly into his father’s eyes. A disapproving glare swept over his rumpled clothes.

“Sherlock, I have tried to convince you of the necessity of your marriage for years now. Every admirer that came here to court you was frightened of you, in the end. I know you don’t want to marry but it is not a good thing to spend one’s life in loneliness.”

Sweat broke out on Sherlock’s forehead when heard the determination in his father’s voice.

“You know Prince Sebastian, he’s been a guest at our annual ball for 4 years in a row and I found the occasional conversations with him pleasant and intriguing.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the blatant lie.”However, he came here today to ask for your hand in marriage.”

“No!” Sherlock yelled, resolutely. His father’s face contorted in anger but Sebastian seemed to be unimpressed if not amused. Sherlock had to try something else than just arguing. He walked closer to the throne and knelt down at his father feet.

“Father, I am begging you. I promise, I won’t spend all my life alone but please, please, don’t wed me just yet!” He looked up through his lashes with his saddest look plastered over his face. “Please, beloved father!”

He watched his father’s resolution falter and kept his attire up in spite of the feeling of triumph that threatened to overcome him.

“As you wish, my son. You will not marry this man just yet but I want you to accompany him to his kingdom where you will live until you are ready to get married.” Sherlock’s face fell.

“But…”

“No, Sherlock. This is my decision and you will do as I say!”

*****

Arriving at Prince Sebastian’s castle, Sherlock placed the one item he had brought with him carefully on the writing desk that was located beneath the sole window of his tiny room. Sliding his fingers over the violin case, Sherlock couldn’t suppress the feeling of being imprisoned. His chamber lay on the highest level of the castle’s tower. There were no curtains or carpets, only a wooden mattress and the desk indicated that it was actually meant to house someone. Someone who needed guards in front of his door.

Shortly before sundown, Prince Sebastian entered his room with big strides. Before Sherlock even knew what was happening, the wild looking man was looming over him, his dirty hair plastered to his forehead.

“Listen! We both know why you are here. I thought, taking you away from your home and family would be enough to make you cry but apparently I was wrong. You are much more resilient than I thought but, believe me, it won’t take me long to break you. Soon you’ll be crying like a baby!” He was shaking his fist in front of Sherlock’s face, leaving no doubt as to how far he was willing to go. But Sherlock, as he had done since leaving his kingdom, refused to talk. There was no need to waste his intellect on this inferior being.

 

The next day, Sherlock spent in silence and solitude. He had managed to convince his chambermaid to bring him books and tobacco. Every now and then he peered though the key hole of his door but he couldn’t find out when (if) the change of guards happened. He was quite content that he would be able to stand the situation as long as it would take Prince Sebastian to finally give up. Sherlock was determined not to cry whatever he might try.

And try he did.

In the evening he visited him again, telling him painful lies about his family. He claimed that the king didn’t love Sherlock, that he just wanted to get rid of him. He made up stories about affairs both his parents were having behind each other’s backs. And when he noticed that the lies didn’t work he started to insult Sherlock, calling him ugly, dumb and pathetic. With every word he said, Prince Sebastian grew more and more agitated but Sherlock only laughed at him. It wasn’t an amused laugh, though. It was provoking and arrogant and Sherlock enjoyed every minute of it. Eventually, Prince Sebastian gave up and left and although Sherlock knew that he had won this time, he felt exhausted and a little bit homesick. He lay on the bed, hugging himself tightly while he fought back his emotions until he fell asleep, at last.

*****

For three days, Sherlock was utterly left alone except for the chambermaid that brought him his food. He had used these days wisely, finding out when the guards changed and interrogating his chambermaid about possible ways to flee if he had to. Luckily, she seemed to be quite taken with him and wasn’t as stupid as most people Sherlock had had to talk to in his life. He avoided addressing her though to not disgruntle her by using the wrong name (again). He forgot it all the time. Something like Milly or Maggy.

Sherlock supposed that Sebastian had needed those three days to figure out a new way to make him cry. The new way turned out to be unabashed violence.

This time it was well after dark when his captor entered the chamber. Sherlock had always been amazed that common decency applied to domestic abuse, too, considering that most people waited for the night to hit their victim. Who would want to disturb their community with such unkind things, right?

Sherlock could see it in the tense posture and the manic grin, Prince Sebastian was displaying. He instantly sat down on the wooden mattress so he would fall on his pillows. There was no way he would win against his traitor in a physical conflict but he could at least avoid the serious injuries.

The first blow landed right below his left eye. It hurt like hell but Sherlock managed to remain upright. The second punch was worse. This time he was hit in the rips, all the air leaving his lungs in a sudden rush. He was certain he’d heard something crack. Sebastian pulled his hair painfully, dragging Sherlock off the mattress and to the floor to kneel in front of him.

“Why don’t you cry? What is wrong with you?” He screamed down at him. Small drops of saliva were raining on Sherlocks face.

Sebastian shoved him hard to the floor before he kicked him violently in the guts and stomped from the room.

 

This night, Sherlock was too agitated to sleep. His rips hurt and his left cheekbone also hummed with pain. Reverently, he took his violin out of its case and played, longingly looking out of the window towards his former home.

*****

3 hours later, Sherlock was silently standing behind his door, listening carefully for any sign of movement, his violin clamped under his arm. Time to leave.

He sneaked out into the hallway and crept down to the staff quarters. In two minutes the guard would be back from his (definitely forbidden) break. At least he was reliable in his bad habits.

Passing the staff area, Sherlock made his way to the kitchen and from there into the farmyard. It was enclosed by high fences that were thickly overgrown with roses but relying on Mindy, he soon found a hole on the far side of the vegetable garden. Gracefully, he crawled through it to the other side.

He cautiously looked around before he straightened up and allowed himself to think of home.

*****

The king was furious when he saw the state his beloved son returned in. He promised Sherlock that he would never have to go back to Prince Sebastian.

*****

One month later, Prince Sebastian was found dead in his bed, a single coin lying on his chest. Rumors said that he had died from a broken heart after losing his beloved Prince Sherlock.

 

 


	2. Prince James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new riddle for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it took me so long. Holidays and heat.

After his return, Sherlock had at first been relieved to be back to his old life but it had only taken a few days until he had begun to feel restless. Though, he was happy having made it out of his imprisonment, he missed the excitement. His servants were complaining that his moods were even worse than before and tried to avoid him if it wasn’t inevitable to be in his presence.

His tedious boredom soon got unbearable and Sherlock was searching for distractions that would set free that exciting energy he had felt when he escaped Prince Sebastian.

In the end he found more than a distraction, he found his purpose in life.

He was sitting in the tavern, in the disguise of a traveling merchant, when he heard the men at the bar talk about a strange chain of thefts that were happening all over the kingdom.

It only took him three days to figure out who the culprits were and where they would strike next.

*****

 

Sherlock was running at full speed with a huge grin plastered all over his face. The stars were hanging heavy in the sky above the narrow alley. His target was still a few paces ahead but Sherlock got gradually closer. Just two meters were separating them now and Sherlock could already hear the jewelry clinging in the thief’s pockets. With all his might he threw himself on the evader, pinning him to the cobblestone. The man tried to push him off, bucking and wriggling beneath him but Sherlock had no problem constricting his every move. After a few minutes the man gave up and began to scream constantly. It was starting to grate on Sherlock’s nerves when he noticed that there was a growing crowd of people at the other end of the alley.

“Oh, just shut up! Or better still, tell me where you thought you could go with your loot. No one in this kingdom would mistake this jewelry for anyone else’s than my mother’s!” The only answer he got was more screaming. Rolling his eyes, he pressed his knee in the thief’s spine.

“Tell me! Is there any place where you could convert it into cash or are you just terrifyingly stupid?

The pained yell that he elicited from the man’s throat made the crowd behind him wince in unison. He was pulling the dark hair towards him, looking right in the perpetrator’s face.

“Speak!”

“Prince James’ realm!”

*****

In the following weeks, Sherlock heard more and more about this Prince James, but it never gave adequate data on the matter. Only superficial information about wealth and fame, the new Prince was piling up. Those things did nothing to help Sherlock gathering data about his opponent.

Impatient, he let his whole kingdom know that he was willing to pay for new information about the unseen Prince.

Many citizens came to tell him what they had heard but it seemed that the object of his nosiness was intangible. If Sherlock had been an illogical man he would have considered Prince James a ghost.

As it was, it only served to kindle his curiosity.

*****

Sherlock lay on his bed, muttering about the lack of vicious crimes in his kingdom while he shot another arrow into his closet-door. This one a bit closer to Mandy’s head. He had given her the position of his chambermaid after Prince Sebastian had tragically died. _What a shame_. She didn’t seem to mind his assassination attempts and he admittedly didn’t try very hard. All he wanted was to make her screech again. But it had only worked once, when he had accidentally set her hair on fire while experimenting on a very interesting powder from china.

He sighed theatrically. What he wasn’t willing to do for a case of murder. He was only five minutes away from doing it himself, the only thing stopping him was the knowledge that it would be annoyingly easy to solve. And he wasn’t even an inch closer to that damn Prince James.

A knock on the door shook him out of his reverie and made Maddi yelp in surprise. _Damn_.

“Sherlock, you’ve got a visitor. He is just talking to your father.”

“Not interested.” He said with his firmest rejection-voice.

“He says his name is Prince James and you would be searching for him.” Sherlock scrambled to his feet as if the bed was on fire. The crossbow fell to the floor, one arrow going off, nailing May’s skirt to the chair she had been sitting in. She shrieked, startled. _Yessss_.

*****

It was surprisingly difficult to convince his father to not marry them on the spot. Sherlock had been so eager to accompany Prince James to his realm that the King had mistaken his enthusiasm for love but Sherlock managed to talk his way out of this idea. If Sherlock was honest, he had to admit that he didn’t know what love was. If it was something that included a feeling of excitement and curiosity, he probably was in love with Prince James. Not that it was important. Sherlock’s sole interest was focused on the game.

*****

Prince James’ carriage was outworn and it made Sherlock wonder if it would bring them to their destination, at all. When he first entered, there were already two men sitting on one side. They looked at him with disgust and annoyment. It was the first hint for Sherlock that something was wrong. He’d thought that James had chosen him for the game, too. That maybe he’d heard of Sherlock like Sherlock had heard of him. On the carriage ride he attempted a few times to find out what the Prince was playing at but James was only sitting beside him, smiling manically at his minions. He only talked to Sherlock in the short breaks they made every few hours on their trip, telling Sherlock jokes or overly dramatic stories that had occurred in his kingdom.

In his frustration, Sherlock closed his eyes and shut everything else out. He revised all the available data. The state of the carriage. The reaction of Prince James’ inferiors when they first saw him. The 12 jokes and 4 “dramas” he had to listen to. The fact that he’d never heard of James before a few months ago.

He slapped himself, mentally. Painfully obvious!

*****

When Sherlock opened his eyes they had come to a halt. The carriage had stopped in a thick forest, in front of a small hut that was even more chipped than their transport. Sherlock looked around himself, scanning the area but seeing nothing except for trees and heavy brushwood. Prince James’ men immediately began to laugh upon seeing his wandering glance. Their voices sounded rough and nasty. James still refused to say what he meant to do with Sherlock, now that he had tricked him into following him. He turned an evil grin at Sherlock.

“Welcome to my _realm_ , precious.” He made an all-encompassing gesture with his arms.

His men laughed even louder at that and took a strong hold of Sherlock, dragging him into the shabby housing. He didn’t try to run. He knew it would only be a waste of energy and time. He had to wait for a chance.

When he saw the chains that were dangling from the wall, he felt regret creep through his limbs. He should have tried!

*****

Every single muscle in Sherlock’s body was aching, especially his shoulders and arms. The cuffs around his wrists had left angry marks and his neck hurt from the weight of his head hanging down. He had fallen asleep from exhaustion, still chained to the wall and standing upright. Well, hanging upright.

There were coins laying everywhere around him, barely piled up. Sherlock tried to distract himself, counting and estimating their amount. He knew it wasn’t possible but there was nothing else he could do.

*****

He had to wait two additional days. That meant 6 days in total of Sherlock being tied to the wall and getting “tortured”. Prince James always came alone, a manic grin plastered all over his face and a glint of evilness in his eyes. At first, Sherlock had expected to get hit and punched but that had been the exact opposite of the Prince’s plan.

On day six, he entered the dark hut, the same way he had done all the days before. With a feather in his hands.

Sherlock’s stomach was churning and the urge to vomit rose in his body. He was disgusted by his lack of self control but there was nothing he could do against his body’s natural reaction.

Slowly, James raised the feather to his left flank.

“Sherly, just give in. We both know how this is going to end!”

“Piss off!” It was everything Sherlock could reply. Prince James repelled him like nobody else had ever done.

Softly, the feather was dragged over is skin. Sherlock felt his muscles contract and his chest tightening.

As much as Sherlock tried to delay the inevitable, in the end he wasn’t able to help it. He was ticklish and after a few minutes he eventually cried of laughter. Again.

As always, it was over after a new pile of coins had formed around his feet. The guard that usually stood in front of his chamber came to feed him. Everything went as usual until it suddenly didn’t.  While chewing his fish pie, Sherlock noticed something sharp and metallic in his mouth. Although he attempted to not show it, the guard knew exactly what had happened. Sherlock already readied himself for a struggle when the guard just winked at him.

“John sends his regards.” He feed the last bites to Sherlock before he left as if nothing had happened.

It wasn’t that hard to open his handcuffs with the small silver needle, after Sherlock had managed to get it out of his mouth and into his right hand.

Looking through the window, he saw that the guard made his way over to his special loo-tree. Cautiously he pushed the window open before he slipped through it. A small bread broke under his feet but unsurprisingly, the guard didn’t look around to see what was happening.

*****

Sherlock was running through the woods, determined not to go back to his father’s kingdom. There was only one place he could go now. Somewhere nobody knew him.

Blurring in-between the brushwood, Sherlock smiled to himself in spite of everything that had happened.

“I come and get you, John.” He whispered, breathlessly.

*****

 

 


	3. A Man Called John

It was ridiculously easy to determine the origin of the man who’d helped him flee. Judging by the mud under his shoes and the Nodding Suns that were stuck in it, a rare kind of flower that moved its blossoms towards any available source of light and therefore looked as if it vehemently agreed to bright sunshine, the man had walked through the Yellow Fields at the border to the Watson Territory.

Sherlock felt exhilarated by the prospect to see this democratic conglomerate of villages and barn yards that was usually only called the ”Torry”. Never before had he visited a place without gentry at its top.  The Watsons were known for a close relationship to the citizens of their territory and generally considered rooted to the soil. Sherlock wasn’t interested in meeting them, though. He already knew where he’d most likely find this _John._

 

* * *

 

After two days spent hiding and fighting his body’s annoying demand for food, Sherlock saw the lantern marking the biggest and most crowded Inn at the center of the “Torry”. Cautiously, he watched the people who entered and left the illuminated tavern for almost an hour before he decided that it was unlikely to meet one of Moriarty’s men. Nonetheless, he took a long dark coat from one of the hooks and turned it’s collar up, hiding half of his face in it.

There were almost 40 people drinking and chatting in the almost tropical main room. Sherlock immediately regretted taking the heaviest coat available. He hated feeling all hot and sweaty but in this situation there was no helping it. While he walked through the room, seemingly purposeful and familiar with his surroundings, he looked for the best place to unobtrusively observe everything and be almost invisible himself.

He found the best spot already occupied by an unassuming middle-aged man in worn clothes who was sitting at a table for two in the right corner. Without hesitation he strode forwards and took hold of the remaining chair. Remembering that some might consider it rude to just sit down he looked into the irritated face on the other side of the table before he said: “May I.” It wasn’t a question.

“Actually, you may not. I am waiting for someone.” The men’s voice was even but carried a clear tone of incomprehension.

“No problem, me too.” Sherlock said, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture between them. He braced himself for an argument about politeness and manors when he heard the man laugh good-naturedly.

“Fair enough!” The other man leant back in his chair and nodded for Sherlock to sit down. In spite of his obviously sociable personality he didn’t try to drag Sherlock into a conversation about topics that usually bored him to death. They sat in comfortable silence, both watching the other guests of the Inn going about their business what mostly consisted of drinking, talking and ordering more to drink.

Sherlock had to admit that he didn’t really know what to look for. He didn’t know anything but a name to go after and if no one actually greeted his target with a loud exclamation of it’s name it would be almost impossible to know who of those people might be John. Quietly, he regarded the man sharing a table with him. Mid-thirties, used to being outside, clearly a regular guest judging by the way people kept nodding at him as a greeting. Not a talkative one though. No one tried to approach him for a casual chat or asked him about his well-being. Even though the man’s beer seemed to magically refill itself every now and then.

“You seem to know many people in here.” He inquired.

“And you don’t.” The man stated distantly.

“True. Do you know a John?” Sherlock asked with false casualty.

“Not a rare name. Are you looking for a specific John or do you just happen to like the name?” Sherlock tried to be annoyed by the inane answer but he couldn’t help feeling a little amused.

With a smirk he said “Both.” and earned a smile in response.

“Right now, there are 4 people called John in here. This one.” He was pointing at the barkeeper, a  big, dark haired man with greasy skin and angry marks on his knuckles caused by too many fights with aggressive guests at shut-down. “The one over there.” A boy that was most likely too young to know the difference between spring and fall but drank from a huge glass of Ale. Sherlock shook his head in denial hoping that this wasn’t the one he was searching for.

“Ok. What about the tall one at the fireplace?” Something was unusual about this one. It took Sherlock all of three seconds to pinpoint exactly what it was.

“Formerly known as Jane?” He asked raising an eyebrow at his helpful conversation partner.

“Nothing but rumors!” The false exasperation was thick in the amused voice. Sherlock made a face as if considering the truth of these _rumors_ before his mouth broke in an honest grin.

“That’s three. Who is the fourth?” He asked a little less interested in the topic now that he noticed the warm expression on the other man’s face.

“Well. That would be me.” The man, _John_ , grinned at him.

Even though Sherlock wished for him to be the John he was searching for he didn’t quite believe it.

“But you don’t know me.” He stated awkwardly.

“Don’t sound so offended. That’s not my fault. But if it helps, I’d gladly change that.” There was definitely something flirtatious in John’s eyes now. It made Sherlock’s chest feel suddenly full and too tight and let it tingle in an unfamiliar way.

“I…Excuse me.” Sherlock almost fell from his chair, stepping on the long coat in his haste to flee.

He stumbled into the narrow corridor leading to the toilets where he stopped dead, leaning against the dirty wall and taking a deep breath to sort his thoughts. He could feel warmth on his face and an extremely foreign feeling of…..happiness?

Shaking his head, he tried to suppress the hope that was blooming deep inside of him. It was very unlikely that he had already found the John he had been searching for even though he very much wanted him to be the same one that had sent someone to help him escape. It was unlikely but not impossible. Gradually, Sherlock felt his heart rate getting back to normal.

He knew there were people who actually did things for absolute strangers but Sherlock did not see himself as someone who’d be on the receiving end of such an event without owing someone for it. But he was, wasn’t he? _Better get a grip, now!_ , he told himself. It would probably be best to order a beer and something to eat for the both of them so he could discreetly find out if John had ever heard of him at all. Sherlock didn’t want to think about the possibility that it was the wrong John that made him feel excited, anxious and just that little bit sanguine.

As always he didn’t have any money with him but it wouldn’t be that hard to cry a few coins for their dinner. The moment he imagined the disappointment of having met the wrong John, he felt his eyes sting and a strong weight pressing down on his chest. Soon, tears were running down his cheeks. As always he held his hands below his face to catch the silver coins and… felt the wetness on his skin, the drops falling on his palms but there was no clinging, no weight, no metallic warmth marking the positions of coins in his hands. Disbelieving, Sherlock stared into his empty hands. Seconds ticked by in which Sherlock tried to comprehend what was happening. When he ultimately failed he decided to go back to John to ask him if he’d like to get to know him over a dinner he’d have to pay.

With still creased eyebrows Sherlock walked back into the guest room. John was still sitting at the table, clearly worried if Sherlock would come back. As soon as he saw him entering the room a fond smile graced his features. There was a white streak in his hair that Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. _Curious._ Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to break his gaze if his life had depended on it. So it happened that he didn’t notice Moriarty’s men until they were standing directly in his line of sight. Instinctively, he took a step backwards before he noticed that both men had turned their backs on him and were directly heading towards John.

He watched John raising his head defiantly, his eyes hard and proud. Again, Sherlock felt a flutter in his chest but he was fast to crush the feeling in this improper situation. John got up from his chair with slow, sure motions. One of the thugs was taking a hold of his right arm, his fingers pressing so hard into the muscle that Sherlock was able to see the pain crossing John’s face before it was set in an impassive expression. The men lead him out of the Inn, pushing their way through the guests with a cloud of confidence and determination surrounding them. John didn’t fight them. He didn’t call for help or try to run away. He just walked out without a look back. Without a look at Sherlock.


	4. The Mad Man

 

Through the Window, Sherlock watched as the men dragged John across the street, through a backyard and into a deserted house with barricaded windows and an old wooden door hanging loosely in it’s hinges. As soon as he saw them vanish inside he exited the Inn, deliberately stumbling and swaying in broad wiggly lines. With the coat collar hiding most of his face he made his way to the chubby housing. He waited silently in front of the door, listening for the voices inside. He could clearly hear Moriarty’s high pitched, manic voice through the broken front window when he began to speak.

“John Watson. Tse, tse, tse. Why did you take an interest in my business? I hadn’t even begun to take over YOUR TERRITORRY!” He yelled angrily.

Sherlock felt sick at the sound of his voice remembering the days he’d spent chained to a wall having to endure Moriarty’s moods and insane perception of reality. However, he didn’t dwell on his disgust and instead focused on the fact that John was _his_ John. It didn’t escape him that he was a Watson too but this fact didn’t interest him in the slightest. He was a Prince himself and that, as well, meant nothing to him.

John hadn’t answered. In fact, Sherlock hadn’t heard him at all. He could just hope that Moriarty wasn’t yelling at a corpse. Something Sherlock had no problem imagining.

“Why, Watson?” Moriarty asked in a sing-song voice.

 

* * *

 

 

When John Watson was 10 years old his mother told him about destiny.

 Before she met his father she’d had a unique gift. _The gift that they owed their wealth to_.  Whenever she had felt unhappy or frustrated or really, really, really happy so that she couldn’t hold back the tears, her wealth had grown. Knowing that there were places in the world where she would probably need money unlike at her father’s home, she began to store every single coin away.

On her 20th birthday she took a walk through the Yellow Fields, daydreaming about the fest she would have liked to have had her father not decided to invite the royalty of the adjacent kingdoms.

As she lay between the Nodding Suns enjoying the warm sunshine on her skin, somebody cleared his throat a few meters away. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and pried into the shadows of the surrounding forest. There, right below a cherry tree stood a good-looking man wearing a half-smirk and looking directly at her. Even though she was intrigued by his pleasant appearance she immediately sat up and gave him a stern look. He excused himself for interrupting whatever she had done and asked if he could join her. Conversation came natural to them. His eyes were gentle and full of humor. Before she knew what was happening she began to plan a future with him but while the love of her life appeared, her gift vanished in the exact same second.

 

John had always envied his father for his snow-white hair and when his mum told him that his hair had been black the day they met it was impossible for him to imagine. So she explained to him that her tears had turned it white.

It took John very long to understand that his mother had not cried on his father’s head until his hair turned white.

 

John came to believe that there had to be someone out there that was meant for him and he decided not to spend his life with anybody else. For years to come he would hold on to this conviction.

And then, on an average Friday at the Inn, Mike told him about Sherlock.

* * *

 

 

John knelt on the wooden floor letting his head hang down and trying to breathe through the pain in his chest. He had taken the first few punches to his stomach with as much dignity as he could muster but the kick to his chest had pushed the air from his lungs and made his eyes water. Moriarty was still yelling at him but John saw no point in answering.

 

John let his eyes wander through the room in a way that would appear to most people as if he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in a scenario like that. He noticed an old puppet lying in one corner of the room, the leaves piled up against the far wall and every inch of rotten wallpaper hanging from the ceiling. And he didn’t miss the shadow behind the front door. John didn’t trust people easily. Most tried to get on his good side hoping to have a strong link to the Watson family in times of need. Even though he’d had handed the responsibility for the _Torry_ to his sister years ago when he realized that he didn’t care much for neither politics nor status.

Still, John knew that it was Sherlock on the other side of the door and this had nothing to do with his own attraction towards the prince. Now he regretted teasing Sherlock and not telling him from the start that he was the one who’d helped him. He’d just wanted to get to know him a bit better. And it wasn’t as if he’d recognized Sherlock when he took the seat beside him. How could he? They met for the first time. Although it only took a few seconds for Sherlock’s striking features to really sink in and wake the memory of Bill’s description of the caged Prince before John’s heart began to beat faster.

“Where is Bill?” John groaned out, fixing his eyes on Moriarty’s.

“Forget him. You’ll never see him again, anyway.” The maniac answered with an evil and too wide smile.

Slowly, John sat back on his heels his arms still stretched to the side’s, held there by the strong but apparently not very smart minions. He could probably overwhelm both of them but Moriarty had placed a sword in hand-reach that could turn his break out into a burial if he was unlucky.

“He shouldn’t have forgotten who was paying him. At least, he was willing to tell me where to look for you.” A blatant lie. John knew Bill would never have told them anything. Mike and Bill were his only friends since childhood. When Mike had told him that Bill had a new employment as _keeper of rare animals,_ as Moriarty put it so nicely, John had called in a favor and given Bill a golden coin for his troubles.

But tonight when Sherlock showed up while Bill didn’t, he thought that Bill had told Sherlock to go looking for him and where to start. He hadn’t though. How Sherlock had managed to find him without knowing who he was looking for was a mystery to John.  But that would have to be solved later. If a Later still existed for them.

“Where is Sky-high-jubilating Afflicted-to-death?”

“Who?” John said false incredulity.

“O-kaaay. Where is Sherlock?” Moriarty answered, rolling his eyes at him.

“I don’t know who you are talking of.” John answered, raising his chin and tensing the muscles in his stomach in preparation for the hard kick of one of Moriarty’s men. He didn’t have to wait long for it to come.

His pained coughing was interrupted by an insistent rattle on the front door.

“’s is ma’ house! Lemme in! Irene, why’s ‘e door locked?”

“Oh, what now?” Theatrically, Moriarty stomped his foot like a stubborn child and nodded for the man to John’s right to go and end the noise.

John kept his crouched position, bend low holding his stomach with the now free hand, but on the inside he began summoning all his left over energy and prepared to pull his hunting knife out of his boot at the exact right moment.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knew he had no chance to further delude the thug after he’d gotten a first glimpse at his face. When he heard the heavy footsteps drawing closer to the door he leant forward, resting one hand on his left knee and waving the other in the air, muttering unintelligibly to himself.

“Hey! Back off!” The man made to push him backwards but Sherlock caught his wrist with the right and in one fast motion batted forward with the heel of his left hand. There was a loud crack as he hit the minions chin before all tension left his opponents body and he had to catch the weight to avoid the thud-noise which would have been too telling for his taste.

“Oi, whatcha doin’?” He growled walking backwards and dragging the lifeless body with him. “Wait? Don’ I know you?” He asked from even further away.

4 meters from the house, Sherlock unceremoniously dropped the corpse and straightened up. He could only suppose that Moriarty was armed in some way. Probably a dagger or even a sword. There was no way to know for sure and Sherlock did not have a clue where he could probably find a weapon for himself.

Quietly, Sherlock crept back to the house. He was decided to access the situation properly and wait for the right moment to attack when he heard Moriarty ordering his man to grab both of John’s arms and pull him upright.

“I am not going to ask you again. I will find him with or without your help. This is getting rather boring. So I am going to make this a bit more interesting for the both of us.”  Sherlock knew what Moriarty’s idea of entertainment contained. The hairs on his neck stood on end when he imagined the possibility of John being irreversibly injured or even….

Sherlock balled his hands into fists closed his eyes and took a deep breath.


End file.
